


Inside my Skin There is This Space

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Scott, Boxing, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Spoilers for Lunar Ellipse, allusions to self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:42:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, he prefers it. None of the heady anger he felt when he was first bitten. The injustice roiling in his belly, the persistent tremor of terror working up his spine. Just him, living a life that doesn’t mean anything, but isn’t hurting either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside my Skin There is This Space

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist. Title from the song 'Absence of Fear'.

There are moments every day when he feels it. Or doesn’t feel it. It isn’t pain, visceral and searing. It’s an absence of light. Scott brushes his thumb over where his heart rests, knowing it’s all metaphor in the magic, but unable to stop himself from thinking of it like a physical manifestation. He imagines an empty cavity, stretching on for eternity, and right in the center, stuck in the darkness, the beating core of him. But he doesn’t feel sad, or angry, or regretful, or like an ache has settled into his bones. He doesn’t feel anything.

Some days, he prefers it. None of the heady anger he felt when he was first bitten. The injustice roiling in his belly, the persistent tremor of terror working up his spine. None of the heartache he should be feeling over Allison and Isaac and newfound love that isn’t his. Just him, living a life that doesn’t mean anything, but isn’t hurting either.

Then there are days like today, when it isn’t a single forgettable moment, when it seems interminable, and he can’t bear how everything is muffled, dulled, tasteless, texture-less, devoid of scent. When he’d be happy with a punch, because at least it would be _something_. 

These days usually find him searching for his dad, so they can fall into a well-worn argument. Or riding around town for hours, half-hoping to let supernatural trouble attack him. Or scratching patterns into his skin and not letting them heal for hours. He discovered that anger and pain were quickest to break through the surface weeks ago. 

“Yo, Scott, wanna train?” 

Scott turns to Stiles, refusal set on the tip of his tongue, but there’s a blankness in Stiles’ expression that’s familiar and he shrugs. “I guess so.”

Stiles suggested they start boxing a month after Scott became an Alpha. At first, Scott was reluctant, because he didn’t want to be the one to injure Stiles beyond repair, but he was wrong to be so hesitant. They practice, they spar, sometimes they bleed. But Stiles gets the upper hand more often than Scott would have predicted and though they’re not evenly matched, it works. Stiles helps ground him, keeps him in control, teaches him technique. He helps Stiles rehearse the rituals Deaton’s been showing him, gives him his body to vent his frustrations on, teaches Stiles how to grow physically stronger, even though mentally they’re both a mess. 

Stiles drags his helmet off the wall behind him. One of them always keeps it in their locker, just in case. The Jeep’s in the shop again, may not come out this time. The last crash really fucked with the suspension, the body and the engine, and it’s a testament to how incomplete Stiles truly is that he doesn’t seem to care. Scott waits for Stiles’ arms to encircle his waist; a steady, secure band, before setting off for the loft. 

They tried Scott’s place first, but his mom kept trying to give them advice. They tried Stiles’, but the Sheriff made offhand jokes about Fight Club, voicing his disapproval with humor --- the Stilinski family trait. The train depot, another abandoned warehouse. None of them were right. Derek’s abandoned loft still has running utilities (which means it may not be abandoned for long, but Scott’s not going to think about that.) It has furniture they can and frequently do lounge on. It’s a refuge with a torn down wall and a plastic-mended roof. Peter hasn’t been there since Derek and Cora left, if Scott’s sense of smell is to be believed. And the space is… it’s what they need.

They’re barely through the door before Stiles is dumping his gear, stripping off his plaid shirt, kicking off his shoes, rolling up the hems on his jeans. Scott follows suit, peeling his layers away, until all he’s wearing is jeans and a tank top. They stretch, they prepare, wrap their hands, go through the motions. Stiles works on his balance. Scott goes through the tactical suggestions Stiles gave him last time they were here. He has a habit of relying on moves that Stiles condemns as flashy and not useful, in the long-run. Stiles has no patience for his insistence that backflips have gotten him out of scrapes before.

“You ready?” he asks, because Stiles has started pacing around him like a predator. He always does that when he’s thinking how best to attack. 

“I’m not gonna dignify that with an ‘I was born ready’. I know you want it, but no,” Stiles returns. And that isn’t amusement in his expression, but it’s close. 

“Baby, you were born to run,” Scott counters, flicking up an eyebrow. 

Stiles starts a one-two jabbing motion that indicates readiness and impatience. “Oh my God. What is it with werewolves and seductive taunting?” 

He wasn’t trying to be seductive, but okay. And who the hell else has been seducing Stiles while simultaneously menacing him? 

Scott edges closer, feet quiet as he balances his weight. He’s concentrating so hard on trying to surprise Stiles with an uppercut that he doesn’t notice the right hook until it’s almost too late. Stiles is a master of using his whole body for a punch, but that means that when Scott blocks him, he’s easy to take down. Stiles’ back hits the training mat with a sickening crunch, but he just gusts out a laugh that doesn’t entirely reach his eyes. Scott gazes down at him for a moment, wondering if he should offer his hand, but Stiles flips back up and socks him in the jaw. 

Scott retaliates with a four punch combination, jabbing high, hitting low. He dodges and weaves to the side every time Stiles gets close, fast on his feet, but bad at aiming. The danger in sparring with Stiles is getting to the point where he’s all defence; blocking, running, forgetting to attack. Because Stiles is undoubtedly slower than he is, but his punches _connect_. Stiles has never actually delivered a knock-out blow, but not for lack of trying. Some sessions Scott comes away with bruises starting to mottle all over his skin, before Stiles glides a hand over his and asks him to heal. 

They dance around each other for a long time, Stiles faking him out with rogue punches and meaningful steps. Scott starts to feel his heart beating strong in his chest, his blood pumping through him. He anticipates each movement Stiles makes and counters with his own. Light cascades in through the window, highlighting the concentration on Stiles’ face, the perspiration dripping down his brow. He goes to attack with a left-hook, but didn’t angle into it properly and gets a punch to his sternum.

Pain blossoms, bright and beautiful, as Stiles hits him dead on the spot he’s already punched. Scott feints right, but punches left, and the blood on Stiles’ teeth has them both grinning. Sweat skims down Scott’s back and he skids off to the side the next time he tries to rush Stiles, earning a punch to the belly and some snickering. They collide soon after that, Scott tucking his head in and delivering body punches that are carefully measured to be the right side of painful. 

“Pivot more,” Stiles murmurs, close to his ear. “Remember --- hands high, elbows low.”

Scott does as he’s told and is rewarded with another successful punch. But then Stiles snaps his jaw up with a left hook that clacks his teeth together and he can’t help but grunt. He takes several steps back, swiping his arm over his forehead and glaring at Stiles, who looks unutterably self-satisfied. And wet. Very wet. His t-shirt clings to him like a second skin, his hair sticks up at odd angles. Scott rolls his shoulders back, averts his eyes. 

“We should take a break.”

“Already?”

Scott works at the binding around his hands, unravels it, flexes his fingers. “I won’t be long. Water.”

The water’s blessedly cool as it slides down his throat. He tips his head back and revels in the sensation of rivulets trickling out his mouth, down his neck. He has to center himself, has to remember that adrenaline can make him think and feel shadows of emotions that aren’t necessarily real. It’s easy to get caught up in the moment, but that’s all it is, that’s all it should be.

He lifts the hem of his tank top up and rubs his face into the dampening material, smelling the combined scent of both him and Stiles. He moans. Fuck. There’s a breathy cough and he looks up to see Stiles staring at him, gaze focused in a way it hasn’t been all afternoon, scent powerfully musky and filled with arousal. Stiles prowls closer, sweeping his eyes over Scott with the kind of possession that can’t be denied. And maybe this shouldn’t be happening, perhaps they’re as tangled and confused as each other, but Scott doesn’t really care.

“You wanna…?” 

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence before Stiles is surging forward and clasping the back of his neck, pressing in close and tilting his head in invitation. Scott closes the distance, crashing them together with more force than necessary, opening wide so Stiles can lick into his mouth.

It’s nothing he ever expected. It’s so much better. Harsher. Sweeter. They don’t fit together perfectly. There are awkward, jagged angles and mistaken fumbles, but Scott wanted that, wanted it not to feel like fantasy. He drags his hands over Stiles’ back, snags the tips of his right fingers under his waistband, needing to be skin to skin. Stiles is so hot, so smooth, and Scott imagines he’s leaving his fingerprints in a trail that winds up his spine. 

He could lose himself in this forever. In the ebb and flow of them. In counting Stiles’ breaths and nuzzling into his pulse point. Stiles urges him back into place, parting his lips with another wet press. He licks against his teeth and strokes against his tongue, rolling his hips against him with unsteady, stuttered determination.

There’s something about the confidence Stiles has in his kisses, how his heart isn’t rollicking along like Scott expected, how his scent has subtle notes that suggest ---

“You’ve already done this,” he says, pulling away a little and failing at not sounding accusatory. “You’ve let someone touch you.” He tugs lightly on Stiles’ hair, tilting his neck so he can lick into the hollow.

“How’d you know?” Stiles asks, breathy.

“I’m your Alpha. I can sense it. Why’d you do it?”

“I needed to not feel numb.”

Scott gets it, he does, but he can’t stop the swell of anger that rages through his veins, the possessiveness he’s always felt, but always been able to manage, before. He wrenches Stiles closer and kisses him fiercely, nipping at his lower lip and then licking it in apology, before doing it all over again. He propels Stiles backwards until they meet the bed, watching as he bounces against the bare mattress. 

Stiles’ eyes are vivid as he gazes back, his mouth startling red, raw and swollen. His chest is heaving, muscles cording and rippling beneath his still-damp tee. He looks alive in a way he rarely does these days, filled with promise and purpose. Scott looks his fill, eyes intent. He wants to be the one to stopper up the hole around Stiles’ heart so he never has the blank expression that has settled into his features too often lately.

“He looked like you,” Stiles says, rising on his elbows. Like he hears his thoughts. “Not close, but enough.”

Scott straddles him on the bed, knees resting tight against his thighs. He leans down and presses a kiss against Stiles’ jaw, soft. “You don’t need an imitation. Never again,” he assures him.

Stiles grins against his mouth, scratches his fingers against his scalp. He holds himself up with his other hand, humming when Scott flicks open his jeans, carefully drags down his zipper. Scott swallows thickly when he glances down and considers his options.

“You don’t have to be so cautious,” Stiles mumbles, tongue swiping the corner of his mouth between each word. 

He moves until he can curl his hand around Scott’s wrist and direct the glide his palm over his hardening cock. Scott sucks in a swift breath, blinking at Stiles’ eyebrow raise. His mind immediately flashes to thoughts of Stiles thick and hot within him, filling up all his empty spaces. He can’t stop the shudder that overtakes his senses. 

Stiles narrows his eyes, assessing. 

“Too much?”

Scott’s mouth is dry, his voice rasps against his throat. “No. Just. I need time to process.”

Stiles nods, kisses him again. He pulls up his tank top and tosses it to the other side of the room, maps him with firm touches that make him arch close. One particular press into the indents of his hips has Scott rising up until he can fall to the side of Stiles, wanting something he can’t articulate. He buries his face into the mattress, his chest shaking with his effort to breathe. Then he rolls over, digging his shoulders in so he can drag his jeans off his hips. Stiles watches him, frown creasing his brow. 

“You okay?”

Scott shakes his head. “I need… I need…“ 

He can’t form the words.

Stiles brushes his thumb against his lips. “I know what you need. I can take care of you. You’re _my_ Alpha, after all.” 

He smirks, eyes warm and teasing. It’s a good look on him, makes him look young and cocky, instead of the old and battered he’s been sporting since… well, since Scott was bitten.

Stiles’ words may be in jest, but they do things to Scott’s reasoning. He doesn’t give a damn that they should be taking things slow and steady, that they should be clear what they both want before they take this any further. All he cares about are Stiles’ lips trailing over his torso, his hand working its way into his boxers and inching them down, the staccato thump of his heart.

Stiles drags the flat of his tongue down around the base of Scott’s cock and he lifts up, gasping. But then there are hands pushing him down, thumbs digging into the delicate flesh of his hips, and he’s restrained to shocky tremors. 

“How’s it feel?”

It feels, it _feels_ , and Scott closes his eyes, moaning in response. A puff of breath skates across the wet spot and he shivers, fingers clawing into the mattress. The slick catch of Stiles’ tongue up the underside of his cock is incredible and he can’t help but want to push into it. He wriggles back up the mattress, twists until he can get his feet flat against it, until he can reach up and scrabble at the headboard. 

Stiles pulls his own clothes off, not making a show of it, but capturing Scott’s attention anyway. He’s all angles and lines, joints that stick out too much, but muscle that suggests strength. Scott wants to memorize every inch of him, wants to know every secret, hidden part of him by touch and taste. He wants to see him shatter the same way Stiles is pulling him apart. But mostly he wants to be the one stroking up and down his cock. 

He bats Stiles’ hand away, takes control. Stiles’ cheeks are flushed red and his nostrils are flaring. He settles closer to Scott than he was before, the heat of him dragging Scott tight like a magnetic pull. Stiles’ cock is hard and dripping precome and he can’t take his eyes off it as he slides the skin back and forth. It feels hot and heavy in his hand and he isn’t thinking about how this must be feeling for Stiles until he hears a choked off grunt. Stiles is cut, which he already knew, but didn’t think about much before, and it’s enticing seeing the differences between them. They aren’t hugely different in length, but Stiles is thicker than he is and Scott once again visualizes taking it, taking it all. 

There’s lube here somewhere. Scott doesn’t want to think about why. But he saw it under the bed last time they were here and he’s going to take advantage of it now. He wraps his left leg around Stiles and gathers him close, kissing him hard as he reaches around for it. Their hips undulate together, cocks sliding through sweat and precome. And it’s good, so good. But it isn’t enough, not yet. 

When he finally retrieves the tube, Stiles is rutting into him with more determination and Scott has to squeeze at his shoulder to ask him to stop. He shows Stiles the tube and Stiles’ eyes go hilariously wide.

“Dude. You came prepared?”

“It was already here,” he answers. Stiles’ expression shifts to slight horror. “I know. But I want you to fuck me and this’ll help.”

Stiles’ fingers clasp unsteadily around the tube. “You want that?”

“I thought you knew what I wanted? What I needed?”

Stiles swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in such a way Scott wants to lick it. “I guess I underestimated you. Which. You’d think I’d know better by now. But yeah. Definitely yes.” 

Stiles is hasty in taking the cap off, squeezes far too much into his hand, spreads it around and warms it. Scott strokes his hand over his jaw to calm him, rearranges until he has his hips raised high and his legs wide. He’s only fingered himself a couple of times, not having the patience or the time for anything drawn out, so he doesn’t really know what to expect. But he realizes he thought it would hurt more than it does when Stiles finally starts to circle the rim of his hole and dip in and out of him incrementally. He enjoys the stretch when Stiles’ middle finger sinks into him up to the first knuckle. When Stiles moves more, careful and considered, almost tender, Scott swivels his hips and then shoves down onto the fingers slowly driving him insane. 

His eyes flutter closed again when Stiles adds another finger, which is a shame, because he’d loved seeing Stiles’ laser focus, his sucked-in cheeks and parted lips. But also isn’t, because he can concentrate on the sensation of opening up and stretching to accommodate Stiles. He can picture how they must look, equally as debauched and broken down as one another, him back-bowed and rapturous, Stiles rock-steady and resolute.

Stiles pours more lube and begins to finger-fuck him, thrusting back and forth with shunts that have Scott knocking his fists into the backboard of the bed. It’s prevarication, but the best kind, and Scott doesn’t have it within himself to complain. All he can do is ride it, feel his nerves sing and his muscles give way. 

“You ready?”

“I was born ready,” Scott answers, laughing when Stiles flicks his ear in reprimand. 

He opens his eyes again, hoping to see Stiles’ smile, but what he sees is a look of uncontainable fondness and the last scrap of darkness constricting his chest dissipates, overridden by light.

Stiles adjusts position, helping him arrange his legs. Neither of them suggests attempting another position. Scott wants to be able to see Stiles’ expressions. He wants to watch the blush across his cheeks, the brightness of his eyes. Stiles nudges insistently at Scott’s hole, cock blunt and warm and so, so slick he’s surprised it hasn’t slid in without any effort. Stiles hitches forward and Scott instinctively clutches for the headboard, mouth parting on an exclamation about how it feels to have Stiles within him. It’s exactly as perfect as he thought it would be, stretching and filling him until he’s complete. He moans Stiles’ name like a plea, and Stiles draws back and drives into him again and again, slow and measured and kindness that’s cruel. 

They have no true rhythm. Scott thinks he tugs too tightly on Stiles’ sweat-slick hair. Sometimes the angle hurts more than it should. But it’s astounding how they curl into one another, how their breaths mingle between each kiss, how their skin glides. 

He thought it would be rougher than this, but he likes that it isn’t. Likes that Stiles is taking his time, is learning what makes him moan, is testing which touches have him trembling. Likes that he can hear their hearts beating in counterpoint with one another, can smell their scents blending, can taste Stiles salty-sweet on his tongue. 

He never wants to stop doing this, to stop the elation, the pressure-points of pain, the sense of connection. Stiles murmurs the same sentiment, mouthing along his collarbones when he’s not taking his mouth by force, when he’s not nuzzling into his hairline. 

Stiles takes his cock in hand and strokes him in time with his thrusts, circling his head with indulgent swipes of his thumb. Scott scratches lightly against his shoulder-blades.

“Fuck. Fuck, Scotty. You feel… oh God, you feel incredible,” Stiles whispers, irises almost glowing golden. It’s probably a trick of the light, but Scott revels in it, in knowing that Stiles is _his_.

He locks his legs tighter around Stiles’ back, changing the angle of his thrusts and it was the best decision he ever made, because now when Stiles ruts into him, the head of his cock glances against his prostate. Scott breathes out short, sharp gasps and focuses on watching the shock bloom on Stiles’ face. 

“This is it, this is what I needed,” Scott slurs, pressing another kiss against Stiles’ lips and capturing his smile.

Stiles is warm and secure and vital. He’s filling Scott to bursting, giving him everything he could ever ask for. The sounds he makes ratchet up Scott’s pleasure, until he doesn’t need the hand wrapping around his cock, the thumb teasing his slit, before he’s going taut and coming all over himself. His eyelids flash white, his whole body shudders and he’s only dimly aware Stiles is still moving for a while, too taken up in coming apart. 

So it’s a revelation when Stiles comes too, hips slamming into his, hard, teeth digging into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. Stiles whimpers and Scott smooths a hand against his nape to settle him. 

After a while Scott lowers his legs, rolls until they’re side by side, clutches Stiles in his embrace. Stiles snuffles against his bitten shoulder, gazing at him from under his eyelashes. 

“How d’you feel?” Scott asks, chill air cooling the sweat all over his body and making him think fondly of blankets. 

“The opposite of numb,” Stiles replies. He kisses along his jaw. “You?”

Scott’s senses feel like they’re on overload; everything smells crisper, looks brighter, sounds louder, tastes sweeter, feels firmer. An ache settles into his bones and it doesn’t matter which way he stretches, it’s ever-present.

“Same.”

Sometimes there are days like today, when the darkness around his heart isn’t a single forgettable moment, when it seems interminable, and he can’t bear how everything is muffled, dulled, tasteless, texture-less, devoid of scent. But now he knows how to combat that, with something more than pain and anger, with everything Stiles can give him. And he has no doubts that life may occasionally hurt, but it also has meaning.


End file.
